DELAY AFTER DELAY. THE SHIPS’ DEPARTURE DATE was put back, then put back again. Meeting after meeting was held with the Navy and Victualling Boards. The officials from both boards became fractious with one another. The inefficiencies in the naval dockyards, always notorious, were now worse than ever. Equipment was ordered but not delivered on time; repair work was sloppy and often needed redoing. The crisis in America took priority: all the yards were under pressure to supply shipping for a potential war. Countering the threat to the governance of England’s precious colonies on America’s east coast was a matter of urgency; refitting two small sloops to search for a nebulous North-east Passage on its west coast was not. All James could do was continue to work long hours on his journal, carry out editor Douglas’s rewriting directives, and meet with Admiralty officials to plan what could be done without actually being at sea.
At last, in late March, Resolution was taken out of Deptford dockyard and down the Thames to the Nore, a sandbank near the mouth of the river. There she again waited, now at anchor, until Discovery was fit to join her. Like a cast being assembled for a grand maritime opera which could have been entitled Quest for the North-east Passage, personnel were auditioned for the expedition’s various roles. Their past performances were judged, their prospective talents assessed. By April the cast for the grand opera had been chosen.
James’s lieutenants on HMS Resolution would be John Gore, James King, John Williamson and William Harvey. There would be eight midshipmen and three quartermasters. In accordance with James’s instruction, the ship’s company would not include a naturalist, but an artist, John Webber, was appointed on the recommendation of the naturalist Daniel Solander, who had sailed with James on Endeavour. The rest of Resolution’s company included the usual specialists: a carpenter, sailmaker, gunner, cook and surgeon, along with the able seamen and a complement of nine marines under the charge of Lieutenant Molesworth Phillips. Omai would travel back to his home island in Resolution, as a supernumerary.
On HMS Discovery Clerke’s officers would be James Burney and John Rickman. There would be five midshipmen and two quartermasters. The ship would also carry a carpenter, sailmaker, gunner, cook and surgeon, plus a contingent of marines under Sergeant James Kich. William Bayly was confirmed as the astronomer, while the passage of another supernumerary, David Nelson, a botanist from Kew Gardens, would be sponsored by Joseph Banks.
James was also informed that Resolution’s sailing master had been appointed. Stephens told him: ‘He’s a Cornishman. Only twenty-two, but he’s served in the Caribbean for three years and already has a reputation as an accomplished surveyor.’
Aware that the role of master on the voyage would be crucial, James said, ‘Who is he?’
‘He’s called Bligh. William Bligh.’
Some unlikely people had put themselves forward. James Boswell, a round-faced, cheery Scotsman, diarist to the great lexicographer Dr Samuel Johnson, visited James at his home and urged to be taken on the voyage. He endeared himself by castigating the late John Hawkesworth, who had written an account of the Endeavour voyage in which he pretended to be Cook himself. This deceit had incensed James, so that when Boswell told him, ‘Why, sir, Hawkesworth has used your narrative as a London tavern-keeper does beer: he has brewed it’, James admired the metaphor and warmed to the diarist. But he could not agree to take Boswell along. He knew the Admiralty would never sanction such a person being taken on the voyage, even as a supernumerary. It was later reported to James that Dr Johnson had consoled Boswell with the words: ‘Shipboard life is like being in gaol, only worse, because there is a chance of being drowned, and a man in gaol has more room, better food and commonly better company.’ What rot, James thought. The man should restrict his judgments to lexicographical matters.
He was now working fifteen-hour days. Time was racing by, and he was determined to complete his writing before the ships’ departure. By April he was covering Resolution’s return voyage. Of the days spent sailing from west to east across the southern Pacific, he summarised:
We now gave up all hopes of finding any more land in this ocean and came to a resolution to steer directly for the Straits of Magellan, with a view of coasting the out, or south side of Tierra del Fuego, round Cape Horn to Strait le Maire. As the world has but a very imperfect knowledge of this coast, I thought the coasting it would be of more advantage to both navigation and geography than anything I could expect to find in a higher latitude.
After another day’s writing, his account covered the visit to the ship by a party of Tierra del Fuegans, on Christmas Day 1774. The meeting still vivid in his memory, he wrote:
They are a little ugly half-starved beardless race; I saw not a tall person amongst them. They were almost naked; their clothing was a seal skin; some had two or three sew’d together, so as to make a cloak which reach’d the knee, but the most of them had only one skin hardly large enough to cover their shoulders, and all their lower parts were quite naked. The women, I was told, cover their privities with a flap of seal skin, but in other respects were clothed as the men; they as well as the children remain’d in the canoes. I saw two young children at the breast, as naked as they were born; thus they are inured from their infancy to cold and hardships. They had with them bows and arrows and darts, or rather harpoons made of bone and fitted to a staff.
He concluded this entry with an account of the goose shoot they had carried out:
TUESDAY, 27 DECEMBER
Fine pleasant weather. Having already completed our water, I order’d the wood, tent and observatory to be got onboard and as this was work for the day, a party of us went away in two boats to shoot geese. We proceeded round by the south side of Goose Island and pick’d up in all thirty-one. On the east side of Goose Island, to the north of the east point, is good anchorage in 17 fathom water, where it is entirely land-lock’d. This is a good place for ships to lay in who are bound to the west; on the north side of this isle I observ’d three fine coves, in which were both wood and water, but it being near night I had no time to sound them, but I have no doubt but there is anchorage; the way to come at them is by the west end of the isle. When I got aboard I found everything was got off from the shore, the launch in, so that we now only waited for a wind to put to sea. The festival that we celebrated at this place occasion’d my giving it the name of Christmas Sound.
As always, the act of recounting these events quickened James’s interest in the forthcoming voyage. What, he wondered, would the Indians of New Albion be like? And would they be of any assistance in discovering and surveying a North-east Passage?
The Royal Society, continuing to show a keen interest in James’s previous two voyages, requested that he write and deliver two papers for them. In spite of the additional pressure this brought, he agreed to do so. After a 10-hour day at Greenwich he returned home and worked long into the night in his study, kept awake by the rumble of passing carts on their way to the hay market in nearby Whitechapel.
His first paper was on the subject of the tidal flows along the east coast of New Holland. This drew on his 1770 survey of that littoral and the enforced stopover beside what he had named the Endeavour River. The second address was on one of his favourite subjects, the preservation of the health of seamen during long voyages. An anti-scorbutic diet and a vigorous regime of personal hygiene and cleanliness below decks were crucial considerations, he argued in his paper. The eminent Fellows of the Royal Society listened intently as he delivered these dissertations, then gave them acclaim.
In the midst of these long, demanding days, a note from Stephens was handed to James at the hospital. He read it, aghast at its contents:
Charles Clerke has been arrested and imprisoned. Meet me here as soon as possible.
The usually unflappable Stephens betrayed deep concern as he explained to James what had happened. ‘He was aboard Resolution at Deptford when prison officers arrested him.’
‘Upon whose orders?’
‘A group of moneylenders in the City. As guarantor for the business dealings of his improvident brother, Charles was also liable for his debts.’
‘What is the amount owed?’
‘Four thousand pounds.’
‘Four thousand?’
‘Yes.’ Stephens’s frown deepened. ‘Needless to say, Clerke’s imprisonment has profound implications for your voyage. He will not be available to take command of Discovery.’
James fell silent. The worst possible news. Clerke’s experience, expertise and cheerful disposition were indispensable. Mind reeling, he decided that Burney, Clerke’s deputy, would now have to command Discovery. Looking at the still-grave Stephens, James asked, ‘Is there no hope of Clerke being released from prison soon?’
‘Only a faint possibility. Parliament is considering an Act that would allow experienced naval officers who are imprisoned for minor offences to be released so they can serve against the rebels in America.’
‘But Clerke is required in the Pacific, not America.’
Stephens waved his hand airily. ‘The Act would encompass Clerke’s case.’
‘When would it take effect?’
‘Not for some months.’ He glowered. ‘Parliament moves so slowly.’
‘Where is Clerke imprisoned?’
‘King’s Bench. Why?’
‘I must go and see him.’
James took a hackney to Southwark, taking with him a small pack containing a book that he had bought at Lambert’s Book Emporium and three apples from the Tower Hill market. The prison’s address was Angel Place, off Borough High Street, St George’s Fields, Southwark. As James approached the building he thought about the irony of the address. ‘Devil’s Place’ would be a more fitting title. Built of brick that was overlaid with a patina of grime, the prison was massive—four-storeyed, with rows of small windows set into its walls. Rows of chimney pots on its roof belched black smoke. James was well aware of King’s Bench’s notoriety. Eight years ago the radical John Wilkes had been imprisoned here, precipitating a riot in which five people had been killed. The event had become known as the massacre of St George’s Fields.
James alighted from the cab outside the prison’s main entrance. Dozens of people were loitering about the front steps. Many women and a few men, all dressed in bedraggled clothing, stood about, their expressions glum. Relatives of the inmates, James presumed. It was raining, which added to the general atmosphere of despair. Most of those standing about had no protection from the weather other than shawls or the turned-up collars of their jackets. A few mangy dogs lay on the cobblestones or slunk among the crowd. Two boys were roasting chestnuts over a brazier, presumably in the hope of selling them for a few farthings. Spotting James in his naval uniform, a man thrust out a grubby hand. ‘Shillin’ for me bruvver, unjustly gaoled?’ he called.
Brushing past the mendicant, James climbed the short flight of steps and went inside. Behind a grilled desk in the foyer sat an elderly man smoking a cob pipe. The superintendent, James presumed. He wore a dark grey jacket buttoned up to his neck, but was unshaven, and his wig was yellowed with smoke.
James spoke through the grill. ‘Cook. Captain James Cook, Royal Navy. I wish to speak to one of the inmates here.’
The man closed his right eye and said slackly, ‘Which inmate, Cap’n?’
‘Clerke. Lieutenant Charles Clerke.’
The man cleared his throat nosily and looked down at the notebook on his desk. Licking his forefinger, he flicked over the pages, then said, ‘Clerke. Level three, cell eight.’ He looked up quickly. ‘You’re here to pay his brother’s debts?’
‘No. As I told you, I wish to talk to him.’
Then man pointed. ‘Down that way. Third level, near the end.’ He turned and called through the door behind him. ‘Kippert!’
A sallow-faced young man in the same grey uniform appeared. On his belt were a cudgel and a short sword.
‘Show the Cap’n to level three, cell eight.’ The superintendent peered at James. ‘Did yer say yer name was James Cook?’
‘I did.’
‘The explorer James Cook?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, very pleased to be of help, Cap’n.’ He smiled, revealing a row of sulphurous teeth.
A central flag-stoned corridor ran the length of the prison; on either side of it were the four levels of barred cells. The air was dank and fetid, reeking of rotting vegetables, smoke and sewage. Water trickled down the brick walls and ran into gutters on either side. As James and the guard walked along the passage a pair of brown rats emerged from a drain hole and scuttled along ahead of them. Gagging at the stench, James followed the guard as they climbed a steel staircase to level three. They walked along a metal gantry and James glanced into the cells. Some contained three men, others had only one occupant. There were no beds and no windows; the only light came from candles in brackets on the walls, and there were palliasses and blankets on the floors, on which the prisoners huddled. In the corners of the cells were tin chamber pots, filled with piss and shit. James thought the conditions and the stink worse than any lower deck he had experienced in all his navy years. The all-knowing Dr Johnson should see this, he thought.
‘Cell eight,’ the guard announced, then walked away.
‘Clerke!’ James called through the bars.
The figure lying on the palliasse turned over. Then, seeing who the visitor was, his face lit up. ‘Captain!’ he exclaimed. Scrambling to his feet, he held his hand out through the bars. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
He wore stained grey calico breeches, a matching jacket—outsized, its sleeves frayed—and his feet were encased in holey socks. His usually ruddy face was pale and drawn, and he was wigless, his hair matted.
They talked for 20 minutes. Charles said that he passed the time reading, and writing an account of his experiences on Resolution. He had had to provide everything he needed out of his own pocket: blankets, cutlery, plates. (‘Not so different from the navy in that respect, sir.’) After Clerke said he had no hope of raising the £4000 to repay his brother’s debt, James told him about the hoped-for statute regarding experienced naval officers. ‘In the meantime,’ he added, ‘Burney will take command of Discovery.’
Clerke’s expression became desolate. ‘I cannot bear the thought of missing the voyage.’
‘Cleave to hope, Clerke. If the parliamentary Act is passed, then the command will revert to you. But time is of the essence, so Resolution must sail first. Discovery will, I hope, follow her under your command.’
Clerke’s eyes grew watery. Gripping the bars of the cell door, he said haltingly: ‘I am so sorry, sir, to cause your expedition such uncertainty.’ He turned and looked at his accommodation in disgust. ‘I will make up for it when I am released from here.’ He cleared his throat harshly and began to cough. Pulling a dirty handkerchief from his sleeve, he blew his nose.
James opened his bag and gave Charles the apples and the book. It was a translation of Louis Antoine de Bougainville’s Voyage Round the World. ‘To remind you of the delights of Otaheite,’ James said, smiling. ‘As if you had need of such a reminder.’
Clerke recovered. Taking James’s hand again, he said breathlessly, ‘Thank you, sir, thank you. I will make it up to you after I’m released from this pestilential place.’
As James left the building, he passed the superintendent’s office. In response to the man’s simpering grin, James glared at him. ‘This place is disgraceful. Filthy from top to bottom.’ Shoving his tricorn down on his head, he pushed through the wretched crowd and out into the square. He would put all the pressure he could on Stephens, who was also the Member of Parliament for Sandwich, to ensure that Clerke was released as soon as possible.